"Bring her into my office. Steady, men! There may be broken bones, and jarring would be torture. Don't stumble over that book on the floor. Lay her here on the sofa, and throw open the blinds." "Dr. Grey, is she dead?" "No, only badly stunned; and the contusion on the head seems to be very severe. Stand back, all of you, and give her air. When did it happen?" "About twenty minutes ago. She is a stout, heavy woman, and we could not walk very fast with such a burden. Ah! you intend to bleed her?" "Yes, I fear nothing else will relieve her. Mitchell, hold the arm for me." "How did she receive this injury?" asked Dr. Mitchell, who had been holding a consultation with Dr. Grey relative to some perplexing case. "Those gray ponies which we were admiring a half-hour since, as they trotted by the door, took fright at a menagerie procession coming up from the depot to the Hippodrome,--and ran away. In steering clear of the elephant, who was covered from head to foot, and certainly looked frightful, the horses ran into a mass of lumber and brick at the corner of Fountain and Franklin streets, where a new store is being erected, and the carriage was upset. Unfortunately the harness was very strong, and did not give away until the carriage had been dragged some yards among the rubbish, and one of the horses finally floundered into a bed of mortar, and broke the traces. The driver kept his hold upon the reins to the last, but was badly bruised, and this woman was thrown out on a pile of bricks and granite-caps. The municipal authorities should prohibit these menagerie parades, for the meekest plough-horse in the State could scarcely have faced that band of musicians, flanked by the covered elephant and giraffe, and the cages of the beasts,--much less those fiery grays, who seem snuffing danger even when there is no provocation." "Who is this woman?" "She is a total stranger to me," answered Dr. Grey, bending down to put his ear to the heart of the victim. A bystander seemed better informed, and replied,-- "She is a servant or housekeeper of the lady who lives at 'Solitude.' But here comes the driver, limping and making wry faces." Robert Maclean approached the sofa, and his scratched and bleeding face paled as he leaned over the prostrate form of his mother. "Oh, doctors, surely two of you can save her! For God's sake, don't let her die! Does she breathe?" "Yes, the bleeding has already benefitted her. She breathes regularly, and the action of her heart is better. Sit down, my man,--you look ghastly. Mitchell, give him some brandy, and sew up that gash in his cheek, while I write a prescription." "Never mind me, doctor; only save my poor mother. She looks like death itself. Mother, mother, it is all over now! Come, wake up, and speak to me!" He seized one of her cold hands, and chafed it vigorously between both of his, while tears and blood mingled, as they dripped from his face to hers. "Doctor, tell me the truth; is there any hope?"